She wore the glorious crown of her voice with the grace of an empress and changed the lives of many through the subtle force of her spirit and demeanor. If the planet Earth could sing, I think it would sound something like Marian Anderson.
Bemused Reader, it was a different time. A time, for example, when no hotel would rent a room to a black person. So the black community, among others, opened their homes; when Anderson needed a place to stay in Princeton, Albert Einstein took her in, and they became close friends.
Right—you get that said about you, and you can go home and kick back with a beer. Add to the fact that the words are Jessye Norman’s—for decades the preeminent alto of her time—and there’s not much more to be said.
And will that stop me?
To say that she broke barriers is understatement. Anderson was born in Philadelphia; her mother was a teacher, her father sold ice and coal. Her grandfather had been a slave and seen emancipation in the 1860’s.
The family was religious; she sang in the church choir, and then sang solos in black churches around the city. There was no money for high school, at first, so she busied herself with her church, which eventually raised the funds for her to attend school; the principal of the school found a voice teacher. She was 24 when she finally finished high school.
And met with a slap—the director of admissions at the Philadelphia Music Academy didn’t mince words: “we don’t take colored.”
Bemused Reader, it was a different time. A time, for example, when no hotel would rent a room to a black person. So the black community, among others, opened their homes; when Anderson needed a place to stay in Princeton, Albert Einstein took her in, and they became close friends.
She studied in New York, won a competition with the New York Philharmonic in 1925, and then took off for Europe. There, she was enthusiastically received, especially in Scandinavia; for most of the 20’s and 30’s, she toured Europe.
It’s almost a shame that the incident with the DAR and the Constitution Hall occurred, since it’s the one story about Anderson that everybody knows. For those who don’t—here goes. The Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR) refused to rent their hall to Anderson, because she was black. Eleanor Roosevelt resigned, sent the organization a scorching letter, and arranged for Anderson to sing at the Lincoln Memorial. 75,000 people came to the concert, millions listened on the radio. Seldom has a bird been flipped more graciously.
Which could be the word for Anderson—she put up with it all, and never bore a grudge. A few years later, she sang at Constitution Hall at the invitation of the DAR, and later recalled no feeling of revenge or victory. It was just another hall. Nor does she harbor any ill will at the Connecticut farmers that withdrew their property from sale when she went looking for a farm. She went right on, and then ingratiated herself with the community, singing Christmas carols at the lighting of the tree, never jumping in line in the stores even when offered to do so.
She was, in short, a thorough, complete lady. But most of all, she was an amazing singer with an impressive, rich voice. Distinctive as well—once you hear it a few times, you’ll never forget it.
And she brings a lovely, old school approach to these songs by Brahms, which are his only songs that have another instrument besides the piano. They’re special—Brahms composed the first for a dear friend, the violinist Joseph Joachim and his wife, an alto. The couple was expecting their first child. So Brahms wrote a lullaby, one of the tenderest pieces he would ever compose, and the three performed it in private: Brahms at the piano, Joachim on the viola, Amalie singing. The music meant so much to Brahms that he decided not publish it; it was private, and a gift.
Two decades later, Joachim’s marriage collapsed, he suspected Amalie of infidelity and filed for divorce. Brahms stupidly got in the middle, wrote a letter to Amalie expressing his belief in her innocence; Amalie introduces the letter in court. Anguished, Brahms wrote a companion song, in an attempt to breach the gap.
It took more than a song to heal the wounds; it took, in fact, the Double Concerto for violin and cello, and even then, the relationship never got completely back.
Anderson’s performance is just breath-taking, as is that of William Primrose, the violist. A perceptive viewer on YouTube made the comment—Primrose sounds like a contralto, Anderson sounds like a viola. It’s a completely satisfying performance….
